


A Home is What You Make It

by bendy_quill



Series: FenHawke Week 2016 [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-16 23:26:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5845051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendy_quill/pseuds/bendy_quill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With hard work and determination, Hawke and Fenris fix her house. They get some help along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Home is What You Make It

**Author's Note:**

> And that's it for FenHawke week from me! This fic is for the theme of hope! I hope you enjoy it! If you want to know more about Lydia, check out my writing blog, [bendy-quill.tumblr.com](http://bendy-quill.tumblr.com/)!

One up and one down and one more for certainty, three stokes for each blank white space on the wall. One to cover the base, the second to coat what was missed, and the third to be safe. It’s like breathing, gentle and relaxed, natural reflex and mindless animation filling the bare space with more color and life.

It took three weeks to get the cracks out of the walls, but they were both prepared for the mess that would come. Clumps of concrete and plaster littered the floors for days. Some of their clothes got a little ruined, and the dog only added to their problems with his incessant trotting throughout the house. They locked him up when they started painting at least.

He stops to survey his current progress. Wide strokes of burnt orange stretch over the surface and mingle with the deep red neighboring it. His gaze turns to the red paint, then further to Merrill with pinned up hair and a look of deep concentration, along with a smudge of red paint, on her face. She’s abandoned her larger brush for a smaller one with a fine point, body hunched and brow knit as she carefully dabs little finishes to the fresco.

She arrived the day after the two of them started cleaning up the house. Her hurried greeting and worried expression was familiar and comforting in some ways, but when she threw her arms around them both, he realized that she missed them a great deal. Merrill made other friends in their absence, many of which were responsible for the smooth floors and walls.

“I think I messed up,” she laments.

He looks at the “mistake” in question.

Along the three sections of wall in the middle of the foyer, Merrill has chosen to immortalize a story with careful strokes of vibrant paint and a brush. On the far right, there are buildings, some tall and some small, with small windows holding bright lights and streets filled with people and vendors all over. Just beneath the bustling city is the sea, black and seemingly unending, that stretches from the city and flows through the center to the far left. On the far left, boats of all shapes and sizes sail into the golden rays of sunlight setting across the black sea. The rays of light emanating from the city and stretching from the sun converge on a woman, the centerpiece of the fresco.

She is bigger than the city and brighter than the sun, with brown skin draped in white and dark cloud-like hair adorned with golden flowers. In her left hand is a staff with an intricate script carved into the grip and topped with an impressive ball of yellow light. Where one would assume that the sun casts the yellow, and orange, and red hues of light over the sea and the city, instead the eye is drawn to the woman in the center, illuminating it all despite no one around seeing the brilliance emanating from her.

“Hawke will love it,” he offers.

A grunt draws their attention towards the stairs and is followed by heavy footfalls down the stairs. Speaking of which…

When she reaches the bottom step, he quickly moves towards her to help her with the heavy stack of fabrics in her hands. They carry the fabrics to a table and plop the stack down.

“How are things going?” Hawke asks.

“Very well, I think,” he responds, head nodding in the direction of the fresco. She turns to survey their progress and her eyes land on the woman in the middle, staff in hand and light surrounding her, then scans across the boats in the sea and the city behind her. The corners of her lips lift, a small and awed smile sliding onto her face. She looks at Merrill, who sheepishly tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, and a soft smile tugs at his lips.

“I love it,” she finally says.

* * *

The rhythmic tap of Donnic’s hammer cuts through the silence as they work, he brushing the polish on the wood and Aveline sanding the other unfinished bookcase. They’ve managed to restore three bookcases so far. The hardest part of restoring the library was trying to find the right type of wood for the bookcases.

Hawke’s bookcases were a rich mahogany color, carefully polished, and engraved with fine gold. The original shelves were gifted to her by a nobleman after saving his daughter. She had given him the directions to the craftsman that originally made them and he trekked halfway across Hightown to commission him for a new set. When he arrived at the shop, the craftsman refused to even show him the stock of mahogany. He knew it was there, could see the slabs of dark wood resting against the back wall. But there was not much he could do to convince the man to sell him anything.  

He turned to leave, empty-handed and silently seething, when he ran into a familiar head of ginger hair. Aveline was happy to see him, he could tell from her tone, and when she asked what he was doing in the shop, he told her exactly what happened. He stood there smirking as the shop keep devolved into a stuttering mess under Aveline’s scrutiny. She offered to pay for the cart to haul the wood back to the house, but he declined on Hawke’s behalf.

Instead, she showed up at the mansion unannounced with Donnic in tow. Hawke put them to work on furniture immediately and they both have been a considerable help. While the new bookcases may be lacking in golden trim, they are still strong and dusted with just enough polish and care between the three. The sound of shuffling papers and books fills the silence. Hawke and Merrill were downstairs going through the ruined books to document what needed to be replaced.

Donnic grunts and Fenris and Aveline stop to look at him. He yelps as he steps on the hammer, foot slipping and grip loosening on the bookcase. Fenris is there in the blink of an eye, markings flaring up as he reaches out to grab the teetering bookcase and steadies it. Unfortunately, his powers limit his ability to be in more than one place and Donnic lands unceremoniously on the ground.

“ _Maker’s blood_ ,” he curses. Aveline drops her sandpaper and rushes to her husband’s side.

Quick footsteps rush up the steps and Hawke and Merrill appear over the threshold, worry written all over their faces.

“What happened?” Hawke asks hurriedly.

Donnic groans and reaches down to rub his sore bottom. Aveline shakes her head and helps him to his feet.

“Donnic slipped,” she answers.

“Just a little mishap,” he reassures, “nothing that’ll stop me now.”

Aveline’s gaze lingers on him, green eyes scanning every inch, before she pats him on the shoulder and returns to the unfinished bookcase she was working on. Donnic reaches out and grabs the bookcase, nodding at Fenris to let go. The wood scrapes across the ground as Donnic moves it to a corner to be worked on later.

Fenris turns back to his bookcase, eyes catching Hawke as she lingers on the steps watching all three of them. She and Anders used to spend a considerable amount of time together in his clinic. He showed her most of the healing magic she knows, but her skill still pales greatly in comparison to what Anders was capable of doing. Her gaze snaps towards him, eyes still filled with worry. He nods at her and she turns slowly to walk back down the stairs.

Fenris picks up the brush and continues polishing the wood.

“Well, we all came out of the woodwork to help Donnic,” he says. Aveline grumbles and shuts her eyes while Donnic guffaws quite loudly.

“Don’t.”

He smiles at Hawke’s distinctive snort.    

* * *

They’ve been staring at the rolls of cloth for hours, bright pinks and gaudy yellows making him turn his head the other way to spare his eyes. On the other side of the shop, Aveline and Merrill are bent over a swath of green and blue rolls, both of them dejectedly shaking their heads.

It’s been about two months since he and Hawke first started repairs on the house and the finishing touches are all that’s left. The curtains and rugs need replacement, but every shop in Hightown has been rather lacking in terms of product. The colors are either too bright or too dull, mostly gone or nowhere to be found, just the right shade of this but missing a certain flare that only one of them can see.

“What about this one?” Donnic calls from across the shop. All four of them turn to look at him, identical disgusted sneers stretching across their faces when their eyes land on the swath of beige in his hands. Donnic frowns and sets the cloth back down. “Or maybe not.”

Hawke groans, loud and frustrated, one hand coming up to scrub over the tight rows on her head. “This is pointless.”

Fenris shakes his head, gaze turning back to the yellow cloth before him. Part of him agrees, but he won’t tell her that, not after all the progress they’ve made with the house. But finding a set of embellishments that fit five separate tastes is not making this foray any easier. Merrill wants something bright and lively, Aveline keeps suggesting neutral colors with Donnic supporting yet somehow always misinterpreting her definition of “neutral,” he’s been rather impartial to it all, and Hawke—

Hawke has no idea what she wants.

“Maybe we could try somewhere else?” he suggests.

Hawke glances sidelong at him, shoulders heaving with the deep sigh that escapes at the suggestion. “I’m not sure how many more shops I can take, Fenris.”

“Then try mine!” a cheerful voice calls. They whip around towards the entrance, and sure enough, leaning against the doorframe is Isabela. He wasn’t sure she would return to Kirkwall any time soon; there wasn’t much to keep her here as it was, not with so much adventure to be had.

How did she find them?

She jerks her head back, beckoning them to come outside. Hawke goes first and he follows closely behind her.

Just outside the doors of the fabric shop is an open cart with a surly looking man sitting behind the reins of two brilliant white horses. On the back of the cart are beautiful fabrics; jades decorated with copper beads and adorned with golden tassels, maroons with Andrastian figures sewn into the fabric with delicate silver thread, soften gold with rich stripes of brown lining the edges of the cloth and small red beads stitched into a careful pattern. Hawke reaches out and lifts some of the fabrics revealing a trove of royal purples, soft pinks, and calming blues underneath.

Isabela clicks her tongue. “Welcome to Bela’s Emporium! We’ve got all the colors under the sun and even more if you ask nicely!”

“Isabela,” Hawke turns to her slowly, voice low and warning, “where did you get this?”

The woman scoffs at the question. “How _else_ do I get the good stuff?”

Aveline and Merrill finally file out of the store and Isabela bounds over to the two of them. She throws her arms around Merrill and squeezes her tight. When she turns to Aveline, he’s surprised when the woman pulls her into a tight hug of her own.

Hawke’s squawk has them all turning towards her and in her hand is a thin piece of paper that he recognizes as a bill. She jabs it in Isabela’s direction.

“You paid _fifty sovereigns_ for this?” she accuses. Isabela opens her mouth to respond but Hawke cuts her off. “ _Fifty_. _Sovereigns_ , Isabela!”

“I didn’t pay for it!” Isabela counters. “Somebody else did. I just got that as the reward.”

“For what?” Hawke asks incredulously.

Isabela shrugs. “You know, from the people that paid me! Monty, Money, something along those lines. Cute with an impressive nose,” she waves her hand, “but not the point. Anyway, they gave me all this stuff as a reward for my part in the job and, well, I don’t really have a place to put it all.” She gestures towards the expensive fabrics sitting on the cart and they all turn to look at the impressive colors. “I figured, since you have all that space in that big house of yours, you might make better use of it!”

 Hawke looks at him and he shakes his head. “I can’t make this choice for you, Hawke.”

She blinks, the turmoil in her head clear in her eyes. Her teeth click when she reaches a decision.

“Alright. I don’t have all the money to pay you back right now,” she says, turning to Isabela, “but I promise to make it up to you as soon as I can.”

Isabela hums thoughtfully. “You know what I _really_ want? That amazing fish platter that Orana used to make! They had good food with the Inquisition, but it wasn’t quite as good as home.”

“ _Excuse me_?” Hawke screeches.

“Oops…”

* * *

Four months and six days is how long it took for them to completely turn the house around again. The walls are covered, the windows have been replaced, the library is filled with new books, the wood has been sanded and polished, the hearth has been cleaned and lit, and the drapes have been hung. The house is vibrant and colorful, strokes of reds, greens, oranges, and such with touches of gold interwoven into the walls and floors.

It feels alive and full again.

Isabela groans, plush rug swallowing most of the sound. She’s lying face down with Merrill resting her head across her lower back. Aveline and Donnic are curled up on the loveseat, both melding with the cushions and faces completely content. Hawke is stretched out across his lap, contented sighs slipping from her as he softly scratches her scalp beneath her fluffy hair. Orana quickly walks into the room and makes a quick dash for the plates with table scrapes and dirty napkins laid atop. Hawke reaches up to swat at her hands when she picks up the first plate.

“Orana, please,” she groans, “sit down and take a breath. We’ll deal with it later.”

Orana sighs and sets the plate back down. “Alright, Mistress.”

She reaches under the table to pull out her lute and plops down on the plush carpet next to Isabela and Merrill. He recognizes the first chords of the strings, the sound ringing in his ears and making them twitch. Even before he lost his memory, he’s sure that he wouldn’t miss Tevinter. But what he does remember that doesn’t bring him pain are the songs. Some of the slaves were particularly versed with music and many would study from the time they were children to perfect their craft. He used to watch them as much as he could, eyes rapt to the women adorned in glittering jewelry and sheer clothing as they sang captivating harmonies and intense falsettos.

Orana strums with practiced fingers and she sings the first verse in perfect Tevene, something he hasn’t heard in quite a while. The low hum of her voice complements the high notes she pulls from the lute. When she reaches a particularly high note, the dog, curled up by the fire roaring in the hearth, raises his head and howls, matching her pitch almost perfectly. A laugh resonates within the room, but calms to allow Orana to finish her song.

A sharp knock on the door draws their attention and Donnic sluggishly rises to his feet. He walks out of the foyer to answer the door, leaving the rest of them spread out and content as Orana strums a different song. Everything is almost as it was, save for a few missing bodies that once filled the house. Hawke has spoken of reaching out to Sebastian to at least make an attempt at reconciliation, but Anders likely has no place here anymore.

Part of him could see what Anders was trying to do; Meredith was exerting far too much control over the city as someone not meant to chase worldly things. The people, not just the mages, were terrified of her and, despite the problems with blood mages, he did find it odd that so many would rather risk death or tranquility over staying behind the walls of the most defensible building in Kirkwall. The blank looks in their eyes and weary stances of some of the mages reminded him of some of the slaves back in Tevinter; sunken and defeated, resigned to their cruel fates. Something was wrong, horribly wrong, and Meredith seemed to be the center of the problem.

Anders could see that mistreatment, and even spoke out about the Gallows often. The man fought back where no one else had the courage to themselves and he even helped some mages escape the Gallows. But he also remembers how he manipulated Hawke. He witnessed that confrontation and how angry he got when she started questioning him. But when he reared on Hawke, accused her of hesitating despite her good reason, Hawke hastily accepted his request.

And then the man questioned _his_ loyalty to Hawke and the devotion they had for each other. He accused him of not truly loving her because of his stance on magic. The things he has said about magic and the way he viewed it were all true, that much he would admit, but listening to Anders criticize and erase the love he felt for Hawke had him seething with rage.  

What was it he said? _Less man than he was wild animal_?

It was little more than water off his back— Danarius and his pet apprentices used to call him much worse, but his feelings for Hawke were assuredly true. He was used to Anders accusing him of being a bigot for his views on mages, but for him to act as if he had the right to determine who was more suitable for Hawke, while actively manipulating her, made him so incredibly angry. Watching Hawke stand up for him wasn’t anything new, but the swift and harsh retort she leveled at the man was nonetheless satisfying to watch.

He sighs and shifts his hand to scratch a different spot on Hawke’s head. She has always stood for the people she loves, even if nothing but pain comes from it. She fought every slaver that was looking for him and even his master when he showed his slimy face. She didn’t push him away after he left her; instead, she taught him how to read. She accepted him back even after everything he put her through when he abandoned her.

Her fingers touch his face and he looks down at her, loving smile and beautiful brown eyes staring up at him. He is lucky to have someone who cares so deeply and so passionately about him, especially in the wake of everything that’s happened, between them and to them directly.

Donnic marches back into the foyer and Fenris’s ears pick up familiar footfalls. Hawke turns her head towards the door and she smiles wide.

“Well, well,” she starts, “look at what the cat dragged in.”

Everyone lifts their heads towards the handsome dwarf just next to Donnic.

“You know me,” Varric teases, “always here to add the dramatic final touch.”

Isabela lifts her face from the confines of the rug. “Varric! Finally escaped from the armies of the faithful?”

Varric shoots a nervous look towards Hawke.

“She told me, accidentally, but assuredly.”

“Wow,” he chuckles, “thought that would’ve lasted longer.”

Isabela pouts at them. “Hey! We all have our bad days.”

“Some more than others,” he mutters lowly. He turns towards the loveseat where a now unimpressed Aveline sits with a scowl on her face.

“Varric,” she says curtly.

He nods at her. “Guard-Captain.”

Finally, he glances at Fenris and quickly shifts his gaze to Merrill as well. “And Broody and Daisy are here too! Whole gang’s here!”

Hawke slowly rises, feet gently touching the ground as she lifts herself off the loveseat. She walks up to him with hands on her hips and a coy smile on her face. Varric’s eyes pan across the room, an approving nod and low whistle cutting through the peaceful scene.

“Like it?” she asks.

“Doesn’t look nearly as bad as the last time I was here, that’s for sure,” he answers. He quickly looks down and hands a large box to Hawke. “Uh, sorry. I thought that looters might come through here, so I had a couple of guys swing by the place. They didn’t have the key to your mother’s room, so they had to, well, improvise, but they did manage to grab as much stuff as they could.”

She stares at the box for some time. The only person in this group that is as selfless as Hawke is Varric, and he hates it when people tell him that. The man paid literal coin to keep most of them safe and he will always be grateful to him for caring as much about them as she does.

“Thank you, Varric.”

He chuckles. “Don’t thank me yet! You’ve done all this decorating and such, but you haven’t finished yet!” He motions towards the stairs. “May I, my lady?”

Hawke nods once at him and he crosses the room to walk up the stairs. Everyone trades looks and rises to follow him up the stairs. He waits until Hawke sets the box down on the table, then she passes in front of him as he follows behind her. When they both reach the top step, she gasps.

Hanging on the wall is a plate marked with the familiar red sigil of the Amell family crest. It’s bigger now, covering the expanse of most of the wall, and Varric stands before it with hands on his hips and his head tilted back to look up at it. They all look at the crest and, finally, it feels like home again. The laughter and the memories, the warmth and the freedom, everything that was once gone from this place is back again and it feels wonderful.

“You know,” Hawke starts, “my father used to tell us before we moved that a house is not a home. A home is what you make it and little pieces of it can stay with you forever.”

He wishes he could have met Malcolm Hawke. The man holds a significant place in her heart and did well to teach her not to be afraid of the world at large. Leandra always used to say that Hawke was just like him in many ways and he wonders just how many.

“I think I just got the inspiration for my next book,” Varric says.

“ _Uh-uh_ , you want that, you pay me. Everyone here is my witness and they all know you got it from me!”

They all burst into laughter.

“Damn it, Hawke! Turned on me just like the Inquisitor!” Varric reaches into his coat and pulls out a deck of Wicked Grace cards. “But, I bet I can _earn_ that quote from you.”

“Oh, I’d like to see you _try_ , Varric.”

“Me too! I haven’t lost good money in months!” Isabela chimes in.

Aveline looks at Donnic, sees the silent plea on his face, and sighs. “Fine, we can stay for just a bit longer.”

“I’d like to play too!” Merrill perks up. “The others started teaching me after you left.”

Varric smirks at Fenris, waving the deck of cards tantalizingly. “You in, Broody?”

Fenris rolls his eyes. “I’m _always_ in.”

They all rush down the stairs and into Hawke’s library, but she falls back with him to linger in front of her crest just a bit longer. Her slides an arm around her waist and pulls her close to him.

“A home is what you make it,” he repeats.

“Terribly cheesy, isn’t it?”

He shakes his head. “A home _is_ what you make it, just as a family is what you make it. Though some bonds may be broken and others a bit stressed, what brings us back together is the comfort we feel in each other, in our own little pieces of home deep inside.”

Hawke rests her head on his shoulder. “For a second there, you sounded just like my father.”

“To hear that from the person who knew him best brings me comfort.” Fenris turns to look at her. “He sounds like a great man.”

“Are you guys playing or what?” Isabela shouts.  “Varric promised to give juicy details about the Inquisitor!”

They share a look, loving smiles mirroring each other, and kiss briefly. Together, they make their way down the steps of their home, hands clasped tight and fingers interlocked.


End file.
